Drift
by AllTheHats
Summary: A collection of Brave Frontier fics that I never finished, but that I like enough to want not to leave to rot on my hard drive for all eternity. There will be a lot of Karl. A lot. - "Are you human?" they ask. (Are you a traitor?) But there is nothing you can give that will satisfy them, so instead you smile and give them nothing.
1. Sometimes (Karl-centric)

**Title:** Sometimes  
 **Summary:** "Are you human?" they ask. (Are you a _traitor_?) But there is nothing you can give that will satisfy them, so instead you smile and give them nothing.  
 **Notes:** I started writing this when I was maybe two continents into the game, and as a result it is very much not canon compliant, as far as Karl's childhood goes. Oops.

* * *

Sometimes, when people think you can't hear, they – well. They _talk_.

Every once in a while, the particularly brave – or particularly curious – will approach you. "Are you human?" they ask. (Are you a _traitor_?) But there is nothing you can give that will satisfy them, so instead you smile and give them nothing. The whispers, the furtive glances and suspicious stares – they follow you always. It's _unfair_ , you think, that they should be so common and yet still hurt so much. It's not like you don't _know._ You've felt it, the staccato one-two hum of frost in your veins and winter gnawing at your heart. But it's easier if you pretend. It's the mentality of a child: if I don't see it, it can't see me. But you play at it nonetheless.

 _It takes a village to raise a child, or so you've been told. At the age of 7, this village –_ your _village – is the whole world. The farmer's wife gives you the parts of the harvest they can't sell – stuff that's overripe, or too small to fetch a good price. The tailor gives you clothes in exchange for work, and the jeweler gives you coin for the pretty stones you find at the bottom of the river. It does not strike you as strange, that you do not have a father and a mother, only a cold empty house and an old man who is never home. This village is the whole world, and the world is small. There are no other children here, and you assume that this is just the way things are. You do not_ wonder.

Your oldest, dearest friend – bless his heart – worries for you. You see him bristle, when he walks besides you and some careless person makes an offhanded remark. Always, he says nothing, but his glance says all the things he does not – are you fine with this? (Are you fine with the way you are?) Always, you tell him (yourself) it does not hurt. _It does not_. A mantra repeated a hundred, a thousand times.

(If you lie enough, you'll surely begin to believe it as well.)

 _He was 6 and you were 11, and the river water sparkled in the idyllic noon light. Still you do not wonder. But as you turn to speak, you see a demon burst forth from the water's depths, jaws open wide – to bite, to rend – and you do not think, you just_. _(No, not like this.) The river comes to life around you, ice screaming through flesh and bone. Your friend is splashing away from the monster (dying, dying, dead – that could've been him), over to you. "Karl!" he shouts, and again, louder,_ "Karl!" _and you can feel his hands (burning hot) on your arm (or maybe you're just cold), pulling you towards the shore, but has he always been so far away? Has the river always been so_ close _? (There is a roaring in your ears.) "_ Karl." _He says again, low, desperate, and you blink and the feeling is lost, swept away in the current. The river is just a river after all. Your friend laughs, would-be lighthearted. You crack a smile too, but don't manage to muster a reply. Talking seems like too momentous a trial, when you are suddenly filled with such a sense of loss. Back at the village, your friend regales the adults with a grossly exaggerated tale of your heroics. To your face, they say, "magician" and "gifted". (At your back, they whisper, "demon" and "god-child".)_


	2. Plausible Deniability (Kuda Atro)

**Title:** Plausible Deniability  
 **Summary:** Atro, Kuda, and all the words that never pass between them. (Or: Atro can't tell whether Kuda's trying to kill him or get in his pants, and quite frankly isn't sure which option is the more daunting of the two.)  
 **Notes:** FF seems to love killing my formatting. I can't figure out how to fix it and quite frankly I am tired of trying, so here. Line breaks. Line breaks for everyone.

* * *

Atro knew, of course, how it was done. But, between the quiet monastery upbringing and humanity's falling out with the gods, there had never been time to…ah… _well._ "Impropriety," he muttered, "thy name be Kuda." Then, louder, "I thought you were trying to kill me."

"Yeah, that too."

"…Does this _turn you on?"_ Atro exclaims in disbelief, tone slightly incredulous and highly scandalized. When, in lieu of a reply, the assassin merely raises his eyebrows suggestively, Atro feels perfectly justified in aiming his next kick at Kuda's groin.

* * *

Urias breaks, and Atro thinks of Kuda, of a sharp blade on the edge of his throat, and he thinks, _Perhaps I will let him, this time_. But Kuda does not come. He _does not come,_ and this thought weighs in Atro's mind, heavy as Urias's broken form in his palms.

(When Urias blazes to life once more, brilliant as dawn after the longest of nights, with the revelation that power is meant to protect and never to harm, Kuda's attempts on Atro's life begin anew, strangely prompt.)

* * *

"Working hard, are you?" a voice purrs practically _in his ear,_ and with a speed he was not aware he possessed, Atro spins around, deflecting the sharp edge of a dagger aimed at his heart. Atro's quarters are small, and there is no room to draw Urias – but so too does the space limit Kuda, his customary whip much too lengthy to be of any use. In the ensuing skirmish, Atro, though forced on the defensive, is keenly aware that he has the advantage of familiarity with the terrain, and – there. Kuda trips briefly on the old board that sticks out from the floor (Atro will fix that board someday. Eventually. He _swears_ it). Atro pounces, slamming the assassin to the floor and sending the dagger skittering away. " _Oh."_ Kuda breathes, winded, "You should've told me you liked it rough." And then, because the man _has no shame,_ he _fondles Atro's ass._ The swordsman does not scream. But in his embarrassed shock, he is a moment too slow to stop Kuda from slipping from his hold. As Kuda escapes out the window, Atro throws his heaviest text at the back of Kuda's stupid head. He misses (of course), and he doesn't have to see Kuda's face to _see_ the smug look on it. If Atro were a lesser man, he would bury his face in a pillow and scream. But he is not, so he settles for entertaining thoughts of the assassin's _unfortunate_ demise instead.

After, when the sun has begun to dip below the far-off line of the horizon, Atro finds a slip of paper hidden in his robes. On it are the tentative movements of the god army for the next week or so, and Atro feels something like understanding weigh down his heart.

* * *

" _Fuck_."

A beat. Two. Then, a horrified wail, as Atro laments, "I _swore._ I've _never_ done that before!" he drops his face into his hands, inconsolable. Kuda, the heartless bastard, has the gall to look proud about that.

* * *

Watching the familiar curve of Kuda's back as he turns to leave, Atro _knows_ , suddenly, that this time will be the last. "Wait!" Unable to stop himself, he grabs Kuda's hand in his own, halting him, and softly pleads, "Reconsider." What, he does not say. (Your loyalty, your lies, your _blatant disregard for human life, your –)_ Kuda says nothing. It would be pointless, they both know, when they already know he will not. And when Kuda pulls away, fingers slipping through Atro's, inevitable as the flow of time, Atro lets him.

* * *

When next they meet, Atro plunges Urias into Kuda's chest, entirely inappropriate laughter attempting to bubble up within him, and, with his dying breath, whispers, "For the children." And perhaps it is only wishful thinking that he hears someone reply, voice unmistakable in spite of the uncharacteristic weakness, "For the future."


	3. Drabbles 1 (Lance-centric)

**Summary:** It isn't, of course, that Lance wants to die. He just doesn't particularly care to live.  
 **Notes:** I've always been rather curious what kind of mindset you'd have to have to reply to "Hey yo, run away with me so I can slowly kill you and turn you into a tree." With "Yeah, sure, that's cool."

* * *

What purpose? What reason is there, for the posturing, the hoarding, when all those whom draw breath must one day find themselves grinding to a halt, as the rusted gears of an antique clock? What purpose did life serve, then, but as a merry masquerade, stretching for the edge of the stars until the curtain must, inevitably, fall in the face of the endless, yawning maw of eternity? And in the face of these thoughts, he had realized, with a sudden clarity, that living was an entirely pointless endeavor.

 _What morbid thoughts you have, child._ Lance started, wholly unprepared for the voice ringing in his mind, but managed to keep his grip on the weapon. _Leave with me, and escape this meaningless existence._ The child blinked, and replied "What makes you any different?"

 _When you are gone,_ it had whispered, _I shall remain._ And Lance had been enchanted.

* * *

He had always been a quiet boy, but now, he found, he had no reason to speak. Drevas could hear his thoughts as clearly as his words, so what purpose did clumsy, spoken language serve? There was none, and so he did not.

* * *

He is not _talented_ , he is no prodigy, for if he were he would not have lost and lost and lost and

Lance turns and walks away, leaving the woman to call indignantly at his back. Drevas's laughter echoes through his thoughts.

* * *

Lance felt the incorporeal prodding that was Drevas attempting to catch his attention, and with a bit of a mental sigh, allowed himself to be stirred from slumber. _Hey_ , the demon had greeted him with, _you should push Vargas into the river._ …What? Mind addled with sleep, Lance sat and, gazing blearily at the swordsman's back some steps away, considered. _Why?_ He'd finally asked, with no small amount of trepidation. The reply was immediate, and all in all about as reasonable as Lance had dared hope. _It'd be hilarious._ Which was to say, not reasonable in the slightest.

 _Drevas, that's terrible.  
Yes, but you'll do it, won't you?  
No. _And with that, Lance slammed his mental connection with the demon closed.

Then he stood and shoved Vargas into the river.


End file.
